Abstraction of Eden
by Penumbri
Summary: Young!Remus learns the three Rs - reactions, redefinition, and rebirth.


Title: Abstraction of Eden  
Rating: pg  
Author: Penumbri [penumbri@yahoo.com]  
Finished: 24 feb 2001  
Archive: permission only  
Disclaimer: harry potter series belongs to j.k. rowling and associates. no infringement intended.  
Notes: three vignettes focusing on young!remus lupin. quotation marks, capitalization, and the like toyed with at will. i'm not terribly familiar with the language patterns of small children, so apologies for any discrepancies there.  
also. this was originally split into five parts. the latter two were cut because - uhm, anyway, if this piece feels slightly unfinished, that would be why.  
Summary: Young!Remus learns the three Rs - reactions, redefinition, and rebirth.  


**Abstraction of Eden**

    **one - mosquito worries**   


  
When I walk into the house, our old farmhouse with twisted floorboards and carpets that smell like old sheep, when I walk through the door, Momma don't look happy. Her mouth turns down, a tired pink rainbow. She says it's because I track mud all over the house. Lazy little boy, Momma scolds. Don't you understand I have enough to do? Try to keep the house clean, now. Go outside to play. You hear? 

I hear. Only it's a lie, what she says. I don't go outside any more, not since the accident three months back. Rommy, my brother who looks like me only he's better, better because he says so and hits me if I say otherwise, says it's my fault. My fault Momma's not laughing or painting or tucking us in at night. My fault her hands stopped moving like sparrows, quick and light; it's because of me she stays out all day and comes back with worry tangled in her brown hair. 

My fault. 

Maybe she'd be happier if she could drink what Daddy does. Every night after the grandfather clock bangs one, two, seventwelve, eleven times, Daddy goes to the study to open a brown bottle, brown like the collar of my robes only clear, and he pours what's inside into a small crystal glass. 

Baby sips, the way you do when your throat is sore and all you can eat is hash and tomato soup, just one tiny swallow at a time... that's how Daddy drinks. Slow and unsteady. He doesn't know I see him lots of nights lying on the couch. The look on his face, drifting like paper boats in a river, scares me. I wonder why he's so thirsty at night? 

There's soda in those bottles, I think. Which is probably why he has to drink slow - too fast and the bubbles might pop right back out, like frogs. 

Like frogs - my stomach did those acrobat jumps yesterday when I looked out the window. The moon was only half there, but the light still stung my face. The wind blew in the smell of tears, failed wishes, hail. It made me hurt all over. 

Moonlight tastes cold, did you know that? Not good ice-cream cold, but flat steel cold, like licking a Knut. I bet it would flood the house if it got the chance, drowning all of our beds and rooms and stuff. 

It's why Momma cries and Daddy hides behind soda pop, the moon with its bad tasting light, and that's why I keep busy by making sure all the windows and curtains are closed in our house. So it can't get in, so we stay dry and the smiles come back the way geese do in spring. 

* * *

    **two - eighteen minutes fourteen seconds**   


  
Seven letters. One, two, three, they tumble around people's mouths; pebbles shaken in soup cans. 

That's his name - Romulus, and he can't hardly ever spell it right. And anyway when he tries the L and the S are messy and wrong, too loopy. It's all ancient sounding. Remus is better, my name, quiet like green growing things, voices in cotton rooms. 

Romulus, Rommy, who is older by eighteen minutes, fourteen seconds. This year he is eight that much longer than me. Because he is bigger, and his hair is darker, and he has blue eyes, all that stuff makes him better. He tells me so. 

I guess it's true, because when grandpas and grandmas, aunts and uncles, when all the family comes from all corners of Europe like crumbs falling from a blanket, you can see they think so. Rommy gets hugs, jokes, Sickles pulled from his ears. Me, they give careful little pats. Soft marshmallow touches, and then they drift away, talking in gloomy funeral voices. Just a year ago, did it happen? Are you sure it's safe…? He looks quite normal, really, it must be hard for you - here, let me get the things for tea. _Accio_, oops, forgot the sugar cubes - 

There's a lot of books in our room, Rommy's and mine. Only I'm the only one who reads them. Since the accident, I get tired, and there're always the scratches, the red lines racing down my arms, stomach, legs, and the scrapes that I never remember getting after every moon. So I stay inside, and Momma helps me learn how to read the hard words like "exaggeration" and gives me those marshmallow pats every once in awhile. While my brother plays outside. While he skips stones in the pond. While he runs with his friends, pulls wings off of dragonflies and pretends they are Cornish pixies. He laughs when he does it. I can hear it from our room. 

Lately he's started drawing a line down the middle of our room. Don't cross the line, Rommy warns, 'cause I don't want your freak disease getting all over me. No, even your stuff can't touch my half of the room - you're so _stupid_ - 

- you're weak, Remmy, weak like a Squib 'cause all you do is stay inside all day. You don't even do chores. Momma and Daddy hate you, 'cause you're useless, you wait and see. He says other things, too. 

Mostly it's okay to ignore him, though, ocean voices in seashells, rising and fading but nothing special to listen to. When I do this long enough he gets mad and leaves the house. It's quieter that way and I like it, except I don't really, because I get used to reading with his voice in the background. 

Daddy doesn't hate me, though. I don't know what Rommy's talking about. I asked him, and he said that Rommy was just going through a stage. Whatever that means, it must be okay, because Daddy told me it'll pass once I get better. Even though when I asked him when that would be and what was wrong with me, exactly, and why couldn't I go to town any more, all he did was kind of smile. And I didn't see him for two days after that, and when he came home the only thing Momma told us was that he was Out of Town. It's a very useful lie grownups tell kids when there's weird things going on. But what Daddy says usually turns out okay, so I trust him. 

Remmy's wrong about me being useless, too. When Momma says it's okay I go outside. I weed the garden. After, I can run with no shoes 'cross the field, climb trees, and be just like him, only without the mean coating me like winter mud. 

He is good at sports, Rommy is. Beater is what he does best when he and his friends play Quidditch. I know this because he practices on me and the gnomes that sometimes live in the trees by the fence. Wham. Wham. I let him because he says he's better than me, and the gnomes don't complain neither. 

Wasn't always like this, my brother. The accident changed him too. Which proves that he really is half of me the way he said way back before, when we could look in a mirror and practically almost see the same person in there. The bad part, the part that happened during and is part of the accident, that part lives in my head now. It must've crowded Rommy out. No room at the inn, so now he's alone with the dark whispering in his ear, _I'll keep you warm._

Or maybe he hit his head and doesn't remember the way we used to play together. There was this time when we went out to the river and tried to catch fish, the little silvery kind that try to eat your toes. And he used to let me ride his Shooting Star all the time. When Rommy wanted to go to the candy store I'd go along with him, and he'd and treat me to jellybeans. 

See, Remmy, he'd say, don't eat these ones, they taste like purple. 

See, Remmy, I'll take care of you, and you take care of me. Then we'll be okay, see? 

I never stopped trying, even when he did. I make his bed now, make the blue sheets smooth with no lumps in the middle. I set the table and hang the washcloth back up when he forgets. Rommy is older and better, so it's all I can do while I sit down and read. Practice writing with a quill. Play checkers with Daddy, while my brother goes outside with his broomstick and shoots pigeons with a slingshot. 

Ping, ping, ping, go the stones. Soft feathers fly the way the birds don't anymore, the dragonflies wiggle without their wings. Romulus, who has a name heavy like marble, comes in late and calls himself Rom now, and tells me so after he punches me in the mouth. 

* * *

    **interlude**   


  
night. 

consort to day, but nothing like. graceful willows do not bow over the moss carpet to her throne. whispers of kraken, not phoenix-song, are the weave of her cloak. on her head is a diadem of shadows, their points lustrous, sleek. 

numerous are her children, who dance around graves and have tea leaning against frost-covered gravestones. it is best to say, however, that pays little attention to her dark offspring. night, with childlike glee, creates, forgets, plays with her toys and leaves them out on the sidewalk. 

such is tonight. here, there, just to the left - she weaves among the stars, picking the brightest to nest in her hair. when she tires of this, she breaks off a stick of moonlight. catch, she calls to one of her nightchildren, and throws. 

> > > > - < < < <

hush-quiet, mouse-stillness, feather-muffled. the snow makes the england countryside all of these things. it presses against the blip of a farmhouse and settles against the doorstep. 

snug in that same house in the same countryside, the dark-haired boy whispers, whispers to the pale shadow of a twin next to him: shhhh, shhhh, skip the creaky stair. 

remus, called remmy, nods at romulus's - rommy's - back. it's so dark, he marvels. i bet no one's ever stayed up this late, not even _grown-ups_. the revelation is met with thoughtful glances at each other. instinctively they tighten their grip on the other's hand. 

the pair lapses into silence, feeling the polished wood against their bare feet as they navigate down the steps into the livingroom. a christmas tree waits in the corner. tinsel and decorations hang from it, reflecting the warm glow from the dying hearth and slivers from the round moon. 

romulus says, do you see presents? 

(christmas eve, of course, being synonymous with childish wonder and the strange glee of greed that overtakes anyone under the age of ten. the two were hardly exceptions, being half and a year older than that.) 

maybe. i can't see very good. remus darts across the room, kneels down to peer under the lavishly decorated tree. ow - stupid branches - wait, push the curtains back more, can't see. 

the dark-haired child complies, then hastens back to join his brother. 

look, he says, pointing to the glint of wrapping paper. i think that's it. d'you think momma's spelled it? 

strong as their avarice is, it's not quite bold enough to make them reach under the scratchy pine needles. perhaps it is the memory of another christmas, one where a similar operation was carried out, that makes them hesitate. 

well, whispers romulus, it's not like there will be blue frogs like last time. 

or the slimy stuff, remus agrees, countenance turning a peculiar pale shade. still, momma's kinda smart, rommy. maybe it's a jelly-legs hex? or black toads? or exploding bubblegum maybe. 

romulus squares his shoulders with an authoritative air. silly - we'd have to open the gum first. we just wanna check, is all. but maybe this time we should just count? 

the recollection of the frogs, evidently, have had the desired impact; the presents breathe a relieved sigh as they are counted, instead of opened with furtive child-hands fumbling with the cheery wrapping paper. 

interrupting the calm: - _crash_ - 

the explosion of sound freezes in the cold stream of air that rushes in. the front window sports a large hole. motes of panic whirling in the room - feet slapping against the bare floor - 

remmy! quick, get over here! his brother screams, voice muffled through the relative safety of the kitchen door. but remus, backed up in a corner, cannot. a shaft of moonlight plays across his crossed arms. 

a lupine form emerges from the shadows, treading softly even through the distinct crunch of broken glass underpaw. its muzzle is blunt, its build oddly proportioned; too-intelligent yellow eyes meet blankly terrified amber. 

there comes a sort of wordless communication. the child understands, fleetingly, and steps back into the shadows; reaches for the rough fur around the creature's neck. carefully runs a finger across its head. when the wolf makes no threatening gestures, he looks into its eyes, curiosity dominating fear. 

-_ catch, play, game, catch light?_ - 

how come you're here? 

-_ hurt-light, catch, game, cold, faster run_ - 

i'm remmy. what's your name? 

- _hunted, monster? no, darklight-child. like you when no hurt-light, yes,_ - 

quick, get away, romulus shouts again. vaguely remus can see his parents, their wands drawn, wavering, faces sickly white - and he wonders why. 

you won't hurt me, right? and he steps backward just to reassure his parents, who look as though the (wolf? yes, he thought, that must be it, though the paws were too large and the eyes distinctly like a human) animal is something to be reckoned with. 

shivering from the sudden cold, remus has one brief moment to be hit with an arrow of solid moonlight before the werewolf lunges. 

his flesh is not what the sharply gleaming fangs seek, however. 

> > > > - < < < <

laughing, night tips her head back, drinking in the sound of her own merriment. obedient children, she keeps, and she applauds this one all the more as it trots toward her, iridescent light in its jaws. 

she would like to play more, like to make her puppets caper about the earth-stage. but day twines around her then, capturing her mouth, and night ceases to be interested with her toys. she focuses on this, a new game, where she is being pushed to down onto a bed of sky. 

> > > > - < < < <

safe in their greenhouses, the faces of geraniums and water lilies turn toward the rising sun. stiff-legged birds wake to fill the air. 

in an otherwhere, a little boy named remus thrashes wildly under sterile sheets, ignoring the weak rays of dawn. curious runes and herb-laden spells etch the air around him. faces watch, chant around him; voices rise and fall, fall and rise. 

yet reality is not the robe he wears, and his pale eyes see nothing. limbs flail convulsively, alternately as cold as marble or hotter than the belly of a dragon. his lips move and guttural noises spill out as he bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds. 

a mantra: help me, help me, no, pleasepleaseplease. inside remus's mind - his reality with the patched and frayed hem - there is something with him. stone-stench suffusing his thoughts, and breath like shredded laughter, something in his head that is not his own. 

… a game. just a game.   


  
    _-- fini 1/1_


End file.
